The Voice
by phantom's angel52
Summary: Erik is Dead. Then why does Christine still hear his voice? Leroux based.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: This is a sort of remake of a story I had posted on here years ago. It is changed a lot from the original idea… in fact, this first scene is the only scene that is almost exactly the same as the story once was. This story was probably never popular enough for anybody to remember it in the first place, but none-the-less, here it is… Hope ya'll enjoy.

Thunder clashed overhead, rattling the sconces and windows with a quiver. A flicker of lightning was the only illumination that brightened Christine's face as the cloud cover of the late afternoon laid thick over the heavens. She covered her ears and ducked her head, trying to block out the angry rumble from outside. With her back pressed against a wall inside of the drawing room, she tried to hush her heavy breathing, trying to capture the sound of the lurking figure in the other room. She pressed her hand to her lips, believing that would suppress her sighs as a creek from the floorboard disturbed all silence. Her eyes widened and her fingers tightened around her dress. She wrinkled her nose and bit her lip as she could hear the clumsy footsteps approaching her hiding spot.

Before he could reach the wall she was pressed against, Christine ran across the room, alerting Raoul's attention to her as she jumped behind a large armchair beside the fire's hearth. Raoul chased after her, yelling for her and trying to reach out and grab her hand as she went. Christine laughed and grabbed his newspaper from the table beside his chair and rolled it inside of her hands. Meanwhile, Raoul stood on the other side of the boundary between them, plotting which direction would result in capturing her best.

"You're trapped now," he said, wiping a strand of blonde hair away from his brow.

"But you haven't caught me yet," Christine beamed.

Sensing the challenge, Raoul ran forward toward the chair, finding he chose the wrong direction, for Christine slipped past him and managed to hit his arm along the way with the rolled paper in her hand.

"How dare you; with my own paper too!" Raoul said as he tried to keep up behind his wife.

Christine threw the paper behind her, hitting Raoul in the chest as she held onto the banister of the stairs and swung herself around it to scramble up them. Raoul struggled to turn his weight as quickly and nearly ran past them. Christine turned over her shoulder and laughed, watching her husband struggle as she seemed to glide while she traveled. She swung the door to their bedroom open and ran inside, closing the door behind her to once again slow Raoul's momentum. In her gained time, she ran to her side of the bed and found she was stuck. As she turned, the double doors swung open to reveal Raoul with a look of triumph radiating in his eyes.

A heavy roar was sent broadly over the house, shaking the windows again on their panes and filling the room with another warning glow. Christine smiled and eyed Raoul as he began to slowly walk toward her, knowing he now had her trapped. Eyeing her surroundings, Christine's gaze turned over to the bed, and just as Raoul began to run toward her, she turned and made a leap onto the mound of pillows and covers. Desperately, Raoul leaped after her, trying to catch hold of her leg as she went. Just before he could grab on, Christine had slipped off of the bed and was back on her feet while Raoul was left on his back, struggling to get back into the chase.

He managed to roll off the side of the bed and caught sight of Christine halfway down the stairs again, holding her dressi in one hand and the banister in the other. She was turned as she ran, looking back to check Raoul's progress and began to laugh as he appeared from the bedroom doors again.

"Get back here," he yelled, chuckling as he joined back in.

Christine disappeared past the foyer and into the salon. Raoul quickened his pace, trying to regain the distance he had lost. He jumped the last step, trying desperately to recover when he ran straight into Marie, the maid. He grabbed onto her arms and pulled her back to balance on her feet.

"Monsieur!" Marie cried as he began to laugh.

"Beg pardon, Marie, I'm terribly sorry."

Yet without another word, he was back in pursuit, leaving Marie shaking her head and cocking her head at their childish game.

Raoul came to a stop as he caught sight of Christine standing with her back to the casement doors, her hands mischievously behind her back. She grinned impishly as he stopped to question her intentions when a look of shock spread over his face.

"You wouldn't," he said, almost seriously.

With a quick turn of the handle, the door released from its hinges and cracked open slightly. Raoul flinched at the sound, almost as threatening as the thunder, and held his hand up hoping to stop Christine from fleeing. In his hesitant action, Christine flung the doors open from behind her and stepped out into the storm, letting the rain pour down her back. Raoul stood for a moment – astonished – before charging out after her. Christine began to run again, holding her skirts up over her ankles and laughing as she squinted her eyes as the raindrops beat against her cheeks. She spun around the base of a tree, urging Raoul to follow closely behind her and fell into the damp grass laughing prettily. Raoul dropped to the ground beside her, his hair already drenched and dripping down his nose. He sat himself down beside her and reached an arm over her waist, leaning in close to her lips and planting a solid kiss on them.

"Caught you," he whispered into her lips.

"Don't let me go," Christine whispered back, taking up his offer for another kiss.

Marie watched from the window and shook her head again, looking to her side at another maid of the house, Sarah. Sarah gazed on from over Marie's shoulder, unsure how to feel of the couple's romance. Though childish, she partially wished that she could have one similar to what they shared: the impromptu games, the laughter, the innocence, the passion…

They came inside shortly after their moment outside and each warmed up with a bath. Marie and Sarah put out warm night clothes for each of them and quietly spoke of the only past they knew of the couple: their childhood. It made perfect sense how playful of a couple they were knowing only this past, yet they knew that there were many rumors about the couple that were covered from becoming a scandal. Many whispers and murmurs about a secret romance between them and even another man's involvement with Christine. It was all very hushed, yet they couldn't imagine them to be behind any type of trouble.

"I even heard that Christine used to sing opera," Sarah said to Marie in a whisper.

"Nonesense," Marie replied, pushing the idea aside. "Surely we'd know of something like that."

Sarah shrugged, a bit embarrassed that she had even mentioned it to such response.

"I don't know, I heard somebody who was speaking with Monsieur de Chagny mention 'your wife's previous lifestyle,' and then he said something about opera singers."

"Then why does she never sing here?" Marie offered.

Sarah was lost for words. She never thought about it since she had overheard the conversation between the Comte and a man he was doing business with.

"I only know one thing for sure, and that is that his sisters are displeased with monsieur le Comte's decision in marrying the Comtess. No real reason behind it that I've heard," Marie said.

"Perhaps they are afraid there will be no ere to the family," Sarah suggested.

"Hush, Sarah," Marie warned. "Don't be rude."

"Forgive me, I only pray that my suspicions aren't true."

"As do I," Marie said. "Regardless, they have been nothing but good to us. Covered up past or not, they are who we serve and I am grateful for it."

Sarah nodded this time, fully in agreement to her older counterpart of the household.

As the night wound down, Sarah smiled as the couple closed the doors to their bedroom for the evening in a familiar tradition. The final chores of the night would now begin as the couple was locked away for the night as the storm continued outside. Each time Sarah would pass by the stairs leading up to the bed chamber, she'd send a silent prayer, hoping that this time they would be blessed with a child.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note**: Thanks for the follows and the review, it is greatly appreciated. I would really love input and feelings on the story and what you think of it. So the previous chapter was a set-up for what is to come, and this chapter is the start of what is to be the "real" story. So now, here is the second chapter to The Voice:

The rain began to calm as Raoul and Christine's heavy eyes began to sink. It fell lightly with each hour as their sleep grew deeper and deeper until the rain finally seized before the sun would rise again. Everybody was away for the night and even the birds dared to begin singing their songs after the passing storm. Raoul was breathing heavily beside his wife, his lips lightly parted and his chest lifting and falling steadily.

Christine on the other hand had her eyes clenched tightly as her head turned back and forth on the pillow. She bit her lip and rubbed her face into the cloth of her linens while fighting to break the spells of her sleep's mind. Shifting underneath the covers, her mind raced as she could see under closed eyes a darkness much blacker than night. In the shadow of her thoughts, a figure loomed, tall and broad, yet gentle and silent. A hand stretched out for her, yet she struggled in thought whether to accept the figure's welcome or to flee.

She could not see the eyes, just a pale yellow glow watching her intently. Her hand trembled, both in her dream and in her sleep and she watched as the hand beckoned to her, elbow turning out to extend for her and fingers coiling in over the palm. She shook her head, denying the figure's request, yet took a small step forward.

"Christine…Christine…" the voice seemed to sing.

"It's over," Christine replied to the voice. "You are not what you once were."

She turned in her sleep, trying to turn away from the image in her mind, yet the figure wielding the voice turned around with her, denying her refusal.

"Please," Christine begged, turning all around in the darkness, yet seeing the eyes of amber following her everywhere. "I've decided, please go."

"Christine…"

"No– Please," Christine pleaded.

She mumbled in her sleep, turning back and forth on the pillow, burying her head into the pillow of her bed, trying desperately to close her ears to the voice.

"I'm here," the voice called from her right.

Christine turned to find nobody there, not even the glow of his eyes.

"I'm here," now on the left, the voice called to her.

"Please, stop," Christine cried, now speaking in both her dream and outside of it.

"I'm here;" behind her.

"I'm here;" loudly right into her ear

"Leave me alone!" Christine yelled, kicking her covers and swinging her arms in the direction she last heard him.

She began crying as a pair of arms wrapped around her and scooped her up into a strong chest. Christine struggled against it, pushing away and swinging her fists into it. Her eyes remained tight, yet she could still feel the voice was all around her, now engulfing her body and soul.

"Christine!" cried the body holding her against his, "Christine, please, it's alright!"

"Let go of me!" Christine cried, still beating the chest of the figure.

"Christine, it's me!" Raoul cried, holding her back with his arms and shaking her lightly.

Her eyes shot open and found her Raoul, staring at her with concern and passion. She shook her head and ran her fingers across her eyes, testing to see if she were really awake or still dreaming. A droplet of perspiration formed over her temples, sliding down her cheek and down into her hair as she steadied her breathing.

"Oh, Raoul," she said, throwing herself back into his arms and embracing him tightly.

"You're alright," he cooed. "Nothing will harm you anymore."

"No, Raoul," she said, turning her gaze around the room. "It's everywhere."

Her lips trembled as she looked around her, searching for the yellow eyes and listening for the melodic voice. Her body was tense and fragile as Raoul lifted her up and held her in front of him, pushing her hair back behind her ear.

"What's everywhere, dear?"

"The voice," she whispered, so perhaps it wouldn't hear her.

"Voice?" Raoul questioned.

"_His_ voice," Christine said, looking up dangerously into Raoul's eyes.

Raoul smiled wearily down to his wife and shook his head. A soft sigh pushed past his lips as he pitied his poor Christine and all of the things she had been through.

"_He_ is gone, Christine. You will never have to worry about him again."

"But I heard him," Christine tried.

"Only in your nightmares," Raoul said.

"But Raoul, I know I heard him," Christine begged.

"Hush, my love," Raoul said, pulling Christine in for another embrace. "He is out of our lives and you must now learn to push him out of your mind."

Christine was silent. She could feel Raoul squeeze her tighter, holding on protectively to what he once won over the phantom. His lips pressed tightly on her head and his eyes batted with pain. How he despised the man who once called himself an angel. He was nothing but a demon and now, even in death, preyed on the innocence of her mind. Raoul had been fighting the man ever since they had fled almost three years ago. Her nightmares occurred regularly and her wandering mind often occupied the spirit of the former Phantom of the Opera. To this day, she proceeded cautiously through the city when out of the home and in sleep she was just as cautious.

"Raoul," Christine whispered.

"Yes, love?"

A long pause spread through the air, filling the space with tension as Raoul felt anxiety for what it was that was on Christine's mind.

"He's still here, even now…"

"No, Christine –"

"Raoul."

Raoul pushed her out at his arm's distance and looked lovingly into her eyes. He could see she was trying her hardest not to cry.

"Then he will have to get past me again to get to you," he said bravely.

He pulled her back into an embrace and fell with her slowly onto the sheets of their bed. He wrapped his arms around her once more and pulled her in tightly.

"Nobody will get to you," Raoul said into her ear. "Now get some rest, and sleep soundly."

Christine whimpered to herself and snuggled within her husband's protective embrace and rested her head against the pillow. Fighting back the tears she'd been holding inside of her, she pushed them aside and tried to focus on his deep breathing that took over quickly in his slumber. She pushed all thoughts of the past out of her mind and longed for the future, where there would be no hauntings of ghosts past and felt comfort in knowing she would always have Raoul's love to guide her.

Just as the consoling thoughts of peace were lulling her back to sleep, Christine swore she could hear the breathing sigh of an angel.

"Christine… Christine…"

Christine would not fall back asleep that night. The night around her taunted her weary eyes, yet she could not find the courage to let the darkness take over her mind again. As Raoul began to wake, she pretended to do the same. She knew he'd feel better thinking that she was rested and recovered from the events so early that morning.


	3. Chapter 3

**Authot's Note: There is a piece in this chapter that points back to Leroux, Meg Giry in particular. I'll give virtual brownies to anybody who can point it out in their review… Aside from that, thank you for all of the watches and the few reviews… I'd love to hear how you think the story is going, ideas, questions, etc. so please feel free to leave them in a review. **

"Good morning," Raoul yawned in a sleepy moan.

"Good morning," Christine said wearily.

He turned over underneath the covers and offered his lips to his wife. She cautiously took them, hoping that the intruder from the night before were no longer watching. She knew how much it pained him to see her and Raoul in such bliss. Her mind raced with the thought that he could still be there, lurking behind the walls of their home just as he had at the opera, watching her every move and studying every grace about her. He was the master of shadows and she knew he could easily have found ways of turning their home, her one safe haven, into another domain for purposes of his own. Christine began to tremble, mortified now as she began to imagine his eyes peering over she and Raoul during their pleasurable time before they had first fallen asleep.

"No more nightmares?" Raoul asked blindly.

Christine returned a cool stare, but Raoul hardly noticed.

He scratched the back of his head clumsily and sat up from his side of the bed, his night shirt falling back down over his knees as he walked. Christine watched as her husband pulled out one of his finest tuxedo suits and laid it across the bed. He turned to the armoire and opened each drawer noisily, pulling out him socks and bowtie and tossing them beside the fancy attire, turning to smile sheepishly at Christine. Her eyes were wide with question as he pulled up his trousers and slipped a leg through them.

"Where are you going?" she asked quietly.

"I'm meeting with le Baron de Castelot-Barvezac to go over his properties and leases," Raoul said. "Have you forgotten?"

"No – I mean," Christine fumbled over her words, still recovering from her lack of sleep. "I mean, yes, I suppose I have."

"No matter," Raoul said; pants buttoned up, night shirt hanging over them, kneeling down toward her. "I shan't be long."

"Of course," Christine said, wearily looking about the room.

Raoul placed a firm hand on her knee. She couldn't let him know that she was still dwelling on the voice from her dream. She couldn't tell him that even outside of her dreams, she knew he was still with her. That even at that very moment, she could feel is powerful stare piercing into her, waiting for her to be alone again. She smiled affectionately, trying to hide her worry with reassurance.

"You know, you could always come with me. It would do you good to get out into public again, and maybe—"

"No," Christine said quickly, "Thank you."

Raoul looked at her steadily, trying to read her expression.

"I'm not ready," she said quietly.

She knew that she feared society more than she feared her past at the Opera. While this looming piece of her former life still silently haunted her, it was the people of Paris who would vocalize their opinions of her and the ordeal. Everybody had their opinions and they all fell onto Christine's lap. Raoul was the hero of it all, pulling his rescued love from the depths of Hell, while Christine was never really the victim, but in most eyes, the second villain, toying with the love and affection of the privileged Viscount. Now, with his brother Philippe de Chagny dead, whispers began to form over the true reason the Victome was murdered and how Christine had fallen into the role of Vicomtess.

It didn't help that Raoul's own sisters fueled the rumors, overtly expressing their opinions of the "little opera brat" and her intentions in charming their brother's affections. The entire trial was a mess and Christine preferred to stay away from it all, safe in the comfort of his home – their home.

"Very well, then," he said, squeezing her knee and rising to his feet. "But promise me, you will try and put this all behind you?"

Timidly, Christine nodded.

"Good," Raoul said, planting a firm kiss on her lips and removing his nightshirt, replacing it with a crisp new top.

He hurried through his ritual of dressing and fixing himself up, washing his face and returning the proper wave into his hair. Before Christine truly felt she was awake and functioning, she was seeing him to the door, kissing him good-bye and watching him climb into the carriage outside of the gates. She sat by the window to watch the carriage pull away and remained looking out into the street for some time. Her mind was distracted by every little spark of a thought that entered, trying to keep thoughts of darkness away. Yet somewhere deeply beneath the surface, she could sense that foreboding presence all around her.

Christine sat up immediately and walked to Raoul's chair where his newspaper was laid out for him by Sarah. She snatched a book as she walked by and pulled it open as she dropped herself into the seat, trying to find comfort in pulling her legs up into her chest. Her dressing robe was still wrapped around her, giving her legs accessibility to freely move. Her hair was pinned back, but falling down over her shoulders from her tossing the night before. She found no reason to alter its appearance with nobody to see her aside from the house maids and cooks.

The book sitting in her lap was a piece of Maupassant literature, something Raoul had picked up for her to read a month prior. Christine let the pages fall open and she began to slowly take in the words of the page. She read of Duroy's ascent from the military in Algeria to a journalist and the help offered by a friend's wife. In her help, Duroy comes to love the woman and makes sexual advances toward her. She denies them until her husband falls ill and eventually dies. It is shortly after that the two are married.

Christine dropped the book into her lap and thought for a moment as the section of text she went over occupied her mind. Each word in the perspective of Madeleine Forestier, the wife of Duroy's friend, seemed to make Christine ache with recognition as she was in the middle of the husband that she loved and the charming Duroy. She could sense her anguish in decision and relate her fondness for two men, separate from each other yet equal in their realms of living. The room felt as if it were closing in around Christine now, making her throat feel dry with anxiety as she could feel the man of the darker realm watching over her again.

"Christine…" the voice called.

"No," Christine sighed.

"Christine…"

She covered her eyes in her hands and shook her head, trying remove the ringing from inside of her head by pressing against her temples. Her body quivered tensely, guarding itself from the cold lingering around her.

Was he standing beside her now?

She jerked her head around to find nobody.

Yet everything around her felt so cold and damp…

Christine could feel herself breaking into a soft perspiration, dappling her neck and cheeks. She closed her eyes. The dew slid down her back like the fingers of her memory's existence, pulling a deep gasp from low inside of her throat.

Her eyes ripped open, followed by a shudder and quivering breaths.

"Christine…"

She looked behind her, but there was nobody there.

_It must be a dream_, she thought, sitting herself back up in the chair and looking around the room.

She stood up and felt the book slide off of her lap, falling straight onto her toes, sending a throbbing pain through her foot.

Christine sucked in a breath of pain and reached down for her foot, holding onto the toes and pushing the book to the side.

_This isn't a dream,_ she realized.

"Erik?" she called out timidly.

_This isn't a dream._

"Christine…"

_Oh, God, it isn't._

"Oh, God," she said, backing up into the chair behind her.

She pulled at her robe, pulling the sleeves down lower to try and cover every inch of her.

She looked desperately around the room, trying to find the source of his voice; searching for his yellow eyes again.

They were nowhere.

"Where are you, Erik?" she called out, almost angrily.

Rather than a response, Christine swore she could faintly hear the plucking of a violin string radiating throughout the room. It came from no particular location, much like she heard with his voice, but it echoed throughout the room, pulling louder and louder until she could plainly hear it radiating inside of her head.

_He's here…_

"Oh, God."

The harsh plucking turned into a slow, droning tone scratching heavily against the strings. A crescendo built into a melodic tune, turning Christine's worried features into an ecstatic rush, turning her around the room wildly, searching for the music's creator. Euphoria took hold of Christine's senses as one long note turned into a spill of short strikes against the strings.

It had been so long since she had experienced music…

The music sang in Christine's ears, filling her with a wonder that left her paralyzed in the center of the room.

"Erik, show yourself," she whispered.

"Yes…" the voice returned.

Christine stood, center of it all, her arms stretched up over her head, beckoning her angel of music back to her.

"Come to me," Christine called, her arms stretching further into the air.

The music continued, pounding inside of her mind beginning to make her head ache, yet she continued, arms in the air, calling for the angel to return.

"Please, come to me," she called.

The music seemed to fade…

_Is he going to appear? Just like he once did?_

It seeme to disappear into the walls of the room, out of her head and away from everything, like he was about to appear to her again.

"Come to me," she called again.

"Christine," a voice called.

Christine closed her eyes and shook her head, trying to focus.

"Erik," she whispered.

"Christine!"

Her eyes flew open and she turned to find Sarah standing rushing toward her.

"Christine, are you alright?"

Christine shook her head, trying to make sense of the situation. The music... so quickly evaporated back into the heavens. How had Sarah heard, when nobody used to hear back at the opera?

"Christine?" she called, her hands now shaking her.

Christine looked directly at her, looking into her plain features. She searched within her eyes for an explanation, but only saw that Sarah was searching for the same.

"Are you alright?" Sarah asked, grabbing hold of her hot cheeks. "You were shouting."

"I-I'm fine," Christine said.

"You're trembling," Sarah said nervously.

"It's no bother," Christine said stupidly.

"Madame—"

"It's alright," Christine said. "Thank you."

Sarah searched her more, trying desperately for reason.

"Please," Christine said, realizing she hadn't breathed in some time. "Please, Sarah. Do not tell Raoul about this."

"Don't tell Monsieur de Chagny?" Sarah asked, appauled.

"Please," she reemphasized.

"Yes," Sarah said slowly. "As you wish, Madame."


	4. Chapter 4

Raoul returned home late that afternoon to find Christine sitting just outside of the kitchen where the servants were preparing a meal. She was sure to stay close to anybody in the estate to be sure that she would remain safe from the voice's call. She sat with her fingers laced mutually and her knees pressing together. She smiled up to him, relief sweeping over her features as he dropped down to her level and looked up to her in admiration.

"Thank God," Christine whispered.

Raoul clasped his hands around hers and pulled them down into his lap, drawing her trembling lips toward his. He held her against his kiss for a moment and then released her from his grasp.

"You taste like bourbon," Christine said.

"You know the Baron," Raoul said. "always fond of his liquor."

Christine turned away, a faint smile crossing her lips as she exhaled a pretty sigh.

"It was only one glass, I assure you," Raoul said.

Christine shook her head.

"It's alright, Raoul," she said. "I'm only pleased that you're home."

Raoul stood up, reaching out for Christine's wedding-banded hand and pulling her to her feet, scooped her into his embrace. Her marital hand was held high over her head, clasped within Raoul's and the other rested lightly over his shoulder. He swayed her back and forth and couple times before turning her out and spinning her in a light circle. Her locks of hair swung around her shoulders, delayed from her timed movements and covered Raoul's supporting hand as he pulled her in for another kiss.

"I didn't know the Comte was a dancer," Christine said with a laugh.

"Something my sisters taught me from an early age," he said into her ear. "Don't tell anybody else about it."

Christine laughed again, her nose wrinkling and eyes shining. She looked to Raoul and breathed another sigh, examining his charming features; his sun-bleached hair, his strong jaw and his thin pointed nose. She knew she was truly lucky to be the woman that he chose, despite the talk of the high society he was obligated to mingle with. She knew that somehow, he was different than they were and often wished that Philippe had not died in the cellars that night.

Christine shuddered at the thought.

The Punjab lasso.

The house on the lake.

The torture chamber.

The Phantom of the Opera.

The music…

Raoul ran his fingers over Christine's jaw, carrying her attention back to their moment. Christine was trembling again.

"What's the matter?" Raoul asked.

"Nothing," Christine said, trying to shake the thoughts from her head.

Raoul looked at her, unyielding to her cover.

"Nothing, I swear," Christine lied.

She closed her eyes with shame.

Raoul let go of her and began walking up the stairs in a heated pace, ignoring Christine's botched effort to try and grab hold of her husband's arm.

"Raoul, where are you going?" she asked.

"To change," Raoul replied, shortly.

"Please, Raoul," Christine tried.

"Leave me," Raoul said.

"Raoul, wait."

"Do not torment me further, Christine," Raoul said, turning on her quickly.

Christine stopped immediately in her tracks, looking up to Raoul in pain. Her eyes glistened with a tear but she refused to let it escape. Her glance was steady and strong, vigorous in finding her husband's meaning. She could see him regretting his words, twisting his lips deplorably while his hands clenched in fists.

Christine wished to challenge his words, yet she knew she could not come up with an honest counter to his argument. If he knew how much Erik had been on her mind and even how she had been visited by him that afternoon, Raoul would never forgive her. How could she explain how he had somehow gained access to their home? Somewhere in the walls, he lurked once again, but not in a palace of his own creation, but in the de Chagny estate. How could she tell him that he spoke to her, not only in dreams, but once again through the walls of a room? That he was alive and perusing her once again.

"Forgive me," Christine whimpered.

"What was that?" Raoul asked, taking a step down toward her.

"Forgive me, please," Christine said.

As she said it, the single tear slid down her cheek like a pearl. Raoul's shoulders slumped and his expression softened, yet concern still radiated in his eyes. What was he thinking beneath that poignant mask?

_His mask..._

No, Raoul's. Raoul's face. His façade.

"Christine," he said, his hand reaching out for her.

"Forgive me," she said, shivering.

"Always," Raoul whispered, pulling her in again tightly.

She buried her face into his coat and clung around his waist. He consoled his wife by stroking her long hair, pulling strands away from her face and flattening it against her back. Christine closed her eyes and steadied her breathing, taking one shaky breath at a time and exhaling it quietly into Raoul's chest. How deeply she loved him.

Christine began to relax more, absorbed in her embrace and soothed by the comfort of her life's companion. She focused on his breathing too and how calming it was to move as he did with his breaths. She nestled her head against him, a dim smile grew over her as she quietly began to hum a haunting tune. It started slow and melodic, produced just behind her lips and was hardly audible to her husband. As she drifted deeper into his embrace, she could feel herself swaying back and forth, her head tilting to rest against the bend in Raoul's elbow. The refrain dropped deeper into her chest, filling her lungs with a song unfamiliar to her husband, but being released from her memory's confines. She could feel Raoul's nerves tense as she continued to hum.

"What is that?" Raoul asked.

"Hmm?" Christine hummed, still embraced in the melody.

"That song."

Christine hardly realized it was outside of her mind. She stood up straight against Raoul's embrace and looked him straight in the eye, her head cocked to the side. A small shudder crept down her spine, but she managed to hold her gaze and maintain her calm.

"Just a tune from the past," she said at last.

"From Sweden?" Raoul asked, pointing to her childhood in Uppsala.

"No," Christine said, regretting her answer immediately.

"Oh," Raoul said flatly.

He looked at Christine strangely, as if he was daring himself to continue asking questions. Christine felt shame spilling over her senses, finally driving her to pull her stare away from Raoul's and to look at the floor. She felt him unwrapping his arms from around her shoulders and turning away from her, carrying himself back up the stairs. He was undoubtedly going back to his previous task of changing for dinner, but Christine knew it was with the same feeling of frustration looming behind him.

"Raoul," she called up, still looking toward the ground.

"Yes," Raoul said, stopping but not turning around the face her.

"I just miss—" she cut herself off, afraid of what she might say if she didn't compose her words correctly.

"Yes?" Raoul said, his tone lit with a fiery scorn.

_He almost sounded like…_

"Music."

Raoul turned around on the stair. His face read of nothing but confusion as he shook his head and tried to comprehend.

"It's been so long since I've even heard music," Christine said, almost choking on her words when remembering her earlier experience, "and I miss it."

Raoul let out a breath and came down on the steps, grabbing hold of Christine's hands as if he were going to propose to her all over again. He smiled and almost laughed as he kissed each hand separately and held them in the air.

"No doubt, when music was all you ever knew your whole life," he said in an apologetic tone.

Christine couldn't tell if he were trying to reassure her or himself.

"Yes," Christine said, authentically remembering the past with she and her father traveling Northern France's festivals. She smiled.

"Perhaps we should go to the opera?" Raoul suggested.

"No," Christine said quickly.

Raoul's eyes hardened.

"No, of course, you're right," he said. "It's too soon."

"Perhaps someday," Christine assured, trying to get away from the subject.

"Yes, perhaps," Raoul said distantly.

"But in the meantime," Raoul said, "we have supper."

This time, Raoul took Christine's hands in his and led her up the stairs, watching her elegant movements as she walked. An adoring smile crept over his face as they reached the top and he held her out by the hand, allowing her to bow to him gracefully in a sweep. He pulled her back to her feet and they ran together into the bedroom, closing the door behind them as their playful laughs were trapped within.


	5. Chapter 5

The light trace of fingers grazed Christine's chin, drawing a line alone the side of her jaw and brushing a strand of hair away from her eyes. Her eyes fluttered open, weary underneath the haze of fatigue. Her eyes opened to her husband leaning over her and placing a kiss on her brow. He held onto her with his lips for a moment and then pulled away, realizing she was smiling up at him.

"Sleep, my dear," he said softly. "I shan't be gone long."

"Hmm," Christine sighed back, turning over in her restful state.

She pulled the covers high over her shoulder and curled her arms tight into her chest, bundling in the warmth around her. The lack of sleep both she and Raoul had from the night before was weighing down on her sleepy lids and her body which was still recuperating. She hardly heard Raoul close the door behind him as he left the room, she was already drifting back into her unconscious state of spells.

Christine woke hours later with a start. She gripped onto her stomach, feeling a sense of nausea filling her gut. A salivating sensation filled her mouth with a foul taste, forcing her to breathe deeply through her nose and exhale through pressed lips. Her eyes wavered, recovering from the sudden sickness and quickly turned to the empty spot in the bed beside her. Her thoughts raced as she found her husband missing until the vague memory of the hours prior slipped into her mind. Christine placed her hand over her heart, attempting to still the wild beating. _He had gone out for the morning. Of course. _She was safe.

Without haste, Christine pulled herself from the bed that beckoned her back to rest, but she knew she must be up and about for when Raoul returned home. She went straight for the washroom and dressed before finally emerging from the closed double doors of she and Raoul's room. None of the servants were to be found rummaging around the house. Christine assumed they were either out in town or in the garden. Perhaps even attending to the horses and chickens in the small barn they kept.

She wandered slowly down the stairs leading to the foyer as a commanding roll of thunder trumpeted across the skies, quivering the house on its foundation. Christine looked to the heavens in admiration to the awesome power that swelled through the air. Over fields and towns, even over a vast city such as Paris, the sheer might of the tremulous force presented itself. She hadn't even realized it was raining, yet Christine slowly walked into the study and placed herself in a chair set behind a mahogany desk. She pulled the chair away from the desk and scooted it close to the window. She placed her arms on the pane and rested her chin against them, looking out into the dreary morning.

Pools of murky waters filled over the stone walk-ways and droplets of dew dappled the glass Christine peered out of. An ominous mist placed a scrim over the trees and countryside normally visible from the window's view, making Christine feel as if there was a light veil covering the hills in the distance. She closed her eyes, listening to the shower just beyond her fortifying shelter. It was rhythmic in its pattern, with a soft dribble keeping pace while the sliding of droplets across the glass droned like the hum of a cello. Splashes in the puddles forming beneath the window ceil beat like the snare of a drum and the tension in the air was like the gasp of air before the beginning of an aria. Christine opened her eyes, watching the grass flood with ripples, smiling to herself as she imaged each tiny current to be the tremor of a stringed instrument. The orchestra played on, filling her ears with nature's symphony as she touched her fingertips to the window's face, pressing at each bead of water as if they were the keys of a piano. She slid her fingers over them to the rhythm inside of her mind, favoring the melody nature presented her with.

The music inside of her mind swelled beyond her thoughts, pushing a soft hum to escape her lips. It was a simple melody – as simple as the rain. Pure, also like the rain, it favored the simple beat the rain presented to her. Christine sat in her own hypnotic trance, gripping at the raindrops as they slid past her fingertips and emitting the plain tune inspired by the season. As the buzzing within her mind began to grow more ramped in its harmony, she could sense the airs around her changing.

"Christine…Christine…"

"Hmm…" she hummed, her lips parting to escape a breath that went along with her gently hummed song.

"Christine," the voice said again.

It didn't call her, nor did it demand from her. It simple requested her to turn her attention to it. Christine stroked the glass again, her lips trembling as the tone of the voice rang inside of her mind, imploring her to tear her eyes away from the window and look for its source. The thought swelled inside of her mind, but it took her a moment to render the energy to finally turn.

Yet as she turned, Christine gasped. She had been hearing his voice, yet now she was looking to a form standing in the center of the study, tall and lean, arms crossed over the chest, thin dark hair and a black mask shielding her from the sinister yellow eyes shining from beneath the depths of two black holes, like that of a death's head. It was he: the man who had been haunting her dreams since the day of his death, standing there before her and calling to her once again. There was no mirror between them this time; he was plain and clear with no illusions or tricks. He looked and stood exactly as Christine had first remembered him in the center of his house by the lake. It was the man who she'd sworn she'd heard speaking to her over the past week, yet was he real?

"No," Christine whispered.

"Yes, it is I," Erik said.

"How?" Christine said.

Erik sighed, his arms dropping to his sides and his shoulders slumping. Just as she remembered, all of those months ago.

"You're alive," Christine said.

He made no gestures or comments. He simply looked at her, examining her as if he were making sure that she was being kept properly. Christine stood from the chair beside the window, her hands clutching against her sides as she watched his eyes glance over her.

"You're here," Christine said, holding her arms out as if she were once again calling her to angel of music.

"But how?" she asked.

"Because you have longed for me to be here," Erik said.

"No, but you were dead," Christine retorted.

"Was I?"

"Yes, I—I disposed of you myself," Christine said.

She could feel her fingers gripping onto the chair behind her, trying to maintain her balance.

"Are you a ghost? A real ghost this time?" Christine asked, feeling rather ridiculous with her question.

"You know as well as I; I have never been a ghost, nor have I ever been an angel," Erik said.

"But I disposed of your dead body, I saw you with my own eyes—"

"The human mind can be deceiving," Erik said simply.

Christine looked upon him in admiration. Here he was – the angel of music – a real man once again standing in front of her. All that he was once before was restored in this mysterious way. How he was able to be in so many places at once, how he knew so many tricks that baffled men, and how he seemed to cheat the formal ways of living so simply, he was purely a genius of so many forms. The angel of music: yes, but also an angel of other sorts. An angel of death who could cheat even God's will so perfectly.

"How?" Christine asked.

"'How' what?" Erik asked in reply.

"How do you divert yourself from God's plan? How, when I read about your death and returned to bury you were you able to escape the fate we all must face?"

"Perhaps God does not favor me like others," Erik said shortly.

Christine shied away from his response. She could never feel comfortable with Erik's views of Heaven and Hell, nor did she want to give herself the opportunity to imagine what it was her mind believed was suitable for his fate.

"And you, Christine Daaé. You remain in Paris," Erik said.

"Y—yes," Christine said, turning away in shame.

"Why?"

"I couldn't leave," she said.

"And the Vicomte?"

"Comte—" Christine corrected, eyeing Erik hesitantly, knowing that he knew very well that the former Comte Philippe was killed by his own hands.

"Ah, yes," Erik laughed to himself. "_The Comte._ He wished to take you to the great North, away from all the horrible memories Paris had to offer. Back to the land which you derived from, where your father first taught you. How does _the Comte_ approve of your decision?"

"He maintains business here," Christine said steadily.

"Of course."

"I suppose—"

"Yes?"

Christine hesitated, feeling the threat of his returned presence all around her. But as she realized how his cunning had left him even to escape the greatest of fates, she surrendered to the idea that he would never truly leave her at peace.

"I suppose I shall die in Paris," she said, more simply than she expected.

"As do many," Erik said.

He was so simple with his words. Yet in reflection, Christine was equally as plain. It was as if the distance between them had never truly been there. There were no threats from the past from the man who had taken advantage of her innocent mind. There were no implications of murdering the man that Christine loved the most in the world, and there were no terrors of their past relations. Christine looked to the mask, a slight shudder taking hold of her as she recalled the features that lie just beneath it.

Erik was the root of all her fears in life. She'd never truly feared under the protection of her father and the only worries uncovered in her relationship were established by the voice that had haunted her after her previous encounters. Yet as he stood before her, she found admiration of his genius.

"So all of this time—"

"Yes," Erik said. "I've been with you."

"And will you never leave me at peace?"

"Never."

Christine shuddered.

"You've longed for music," Erik said, erasing his previous words.

A faint smile crossed over Christine's faded lips. _Music…_The source of all that had established her happiness.

"Yes," Christine said.

"Sing for me."

Christine gasped, feeling a thrill overcome her.

"What shall I sing?" she asked the angel.

"Whatever your soul wills."

_Your soul is a beautiful thing…_

She closed her eyes, searching inside of her for the words that expressed her devotion to that which he had taught her. There was no man-written work that could grasp the thrill that she felt from this mysterious human-being, yet somewhere, deep inside of her gut, she grasped at a piece that she had sung before, yet voiced the emotions the voice had on her fully.

_Ah! C'est la voix du bien-aimé! __  
><em>_A son appel mon coeur s'est ranimeé! _

The words filled out of her, pouring out of her soul as she lifted her arms and

sang each word, beseeching her maestro's approval.

_Au milieu de vos éclats de rire,  
>démons qui m'entourez<br>j'ai reconnu sa voix! _

He smiled. The angel of music smiled at Christine as she closed her eyes and raised her arms higher, praising the master who had given her the voice she so skillfully used as her instrument. It was her voice that brought _his voice_ to her, and her voice that brought her the glory of the stage, living the dream that her dear dead father had so longed to live with her. She believed that her father could hear her now and was praising her, just as the angel of music – the voice – was doing now.

_Sa man, sa douce main m'attiré! __  
><em>_Je suis libre! Il est là! _

_ Je l'entends! je le vois!_

She could feel his presence, now more than she had before. He was all around her, watching her and praising her, standing in awe at her rapture. Tears began to flood her eyes and her body swooned at the weakness overtaking it. Yet she remained standing, her arms stretched to the Heavens and her eyes closed tightly, taking in heavy breaths and exchanging them for the most beautiful singing she could emit. _Faust_; the music that earned her first triumph on the stage. Just as she felt her angel of music with her when she first sang as Marguerite, she could feel his presence now, even more than she could then, watching her and adoring her as she continued:

_Oui, c'est toi! je t'aime! __  
><em>_Les fers, la mort même __  
><em>_ne me font plus peut. _

"Christine…"

_Tu m'as retrouvée! __  
><em>_Me voilà sauvée!_

"Christine."

_C'est toi! __  
><em>_Je suis sur ton coeur!_

"Christine!"

Her eyes shot open to find Raoul, standing right where Erik once stood. Her breath wavered, trying to regulate as she watched his arms stretched out for her, just as hers had been for Erik. Tears stained her cheeks and her legs grew weak underneath her weight. Raoul scooped her into his arms and held her close against his chest. Christine looked over his shoulder, scanning the room for any sight of Erik. She saw nothing.

"Christine, are you alright?" Raoul asked.

"Yes—I'm fine," Christine said.

Raoul looked deeply into her eyes, seeing the fear turning to question inside of her. Where did Erik go? He sighed heavily and walked her to a chair to sit. He kneeled in front of her, his hands clasping tightly to hers.

"Forgive me, I didn't mean to frighten you," Raoul said. "I was listening for a moment; it was absolutely beautiful."

Christine felt flushed, her core still tight from strain.

"It was just as I remembered from your first performance at the Opera," Raoul recalled.

"Yes, Faust," Christine said in a whisper.

"The tears in your eyes," Raoul said, seeming hesitant to continue, "reminded me also of that night."

Christine took in a sharp breath. It was exactly like that night. Once again, she was singing for the angel of music. It was as if the journey was beginning all over again.

Raoul noticed her trouble and squeezed her hand tightly.

"I was concerned you would faint once again," he said.

Christine closed her eyes, ashamed. He could never know.

A long silence fell between them as Christine recovered and Raoul rubbed her hand, running his finger over her wedding ring.

He stood suddenly, kissing her hand as he went, gesturing for her to remain where she was.

"I've brought a surprise for you," he said, a sly smile coming over his lips.

"I was afraid this would be too much," he called from the other room, "but after hearing you singing again, I hope it will please you."

Christine could hear his heavy footsteps in the other room, a long silence, and then the steps returning in her direction. He rounded the corner, holding a delicate instrument in one hand with a long bow in the other. Raoul placed the violin upon his shoulder and held the bow over the strings without allowing it to make a sound. Christine's delicate hands drew up to her lips.

"I know you have been longing for music to be in your life again," he said, "and when I saw this, I felt perhaps—"

He fell silent, waiting for an expression from his wife, yet she merely stared at the violin resting against him, trying to make sense of her previous encounter.

"I may remember some of what your father had taught me all those years ago," Raoul said, growing apprehensive. Christine saw the dimming light in his eyes.

"Oh, Raoul," Christine said, smiling kindly at him.

She looked at the instrument and imagined her father, who never seemed to be without his own violin. Though her father's was tattered and worn, this was new and fresh in its carvings, crisp in detail and finely tailored. Raoul smiled proudly to her and she laughed softly at his benevolence.

"It's wonderful," she said.

"Good," Raoul said, placing the violin down on the study's desk and taking his wife in his arms.

Christine rested her cheek against his shoulder, taking one brief look around the room before giving her husband a solid kiss on the cheek. Raoul was home and she was safe in his company. Erik wouldn't intrude on their happiness; not after he had already set them both free. It was in the solitude of her thoughts that Erik would intrude.


	6. Chapter 6

Author's Note: This chapter took a bit longer than I originally intended to post, but this past month has been… a bit of a downer for me. Between finals, Christmas quickly approaching and the death of my beloved dog, I just haven't been able to do it. I'm not really apologizing, just giving excuses :) Anyway, this chapter is intended to be more of a counterpoint into what is quickly becoming the end… Yes, it came all too soon, but I also tend to not write too long of phics, but just elaborate on certain headcanons of mine. So without further ado, another unnamed chapter. Thanks again for reading and just a reminder that reviews are VERY much appreciated!

Raoul played the violin that night for Christine after dinner. They sat in the comfort of the study, where the maids would peak their heads in and walk by slowly to gain a chance to listen, for they were surprised that the Comte knew how to play. They would turn to each other and smile, nodding in their approval and laughing quietly to themselves at any fault he would encounter, but generally were pleased with the performance he gave to his wife.

Christine smiled politely to her husband but could not bring herself to adhere to the charm of his playing. It was, in fact, charming, just as her voice once was. But it lacked depth and emotion. It lacked feeling and power which left Christine feeling unsatisfied. She longed to hear the thrill that music once gave her, lifting her soul from her body and taking it to new heights. It seemed that all of the last pieces of music she had heard easily transported her so, whether it was from the melodies that had been getting stuck in her head lately, from the opera, or from the pursuits of her own singing just that afternoon, recalling the sensation that Faust had given to her.

Throughout Raoul's renditions of classics, Christine's mind searched for the better memories that music has offered her, from her father's melodies matched to her singing, to Erik. Even as the spark of Raoul's lessons in Perros-Guirec flashed into recollection, Christine smiled to herself. Yet now, his art on the violin angered her. The scrapping of the strings of such a beautiful instrument made her cringe, and as Marie stuck her head into the study and held her arms out to clap for the Comte, Christine fought off a scowl. He truly was trying and for somebody who hadn't touched a violin for so many years, he was actually doing quite well. Yet his gift to her was not what she wanted.

Raoul finished much to Christine's relief and he had the look of true accomplishment across his face. He was proud to retouch the favorable traits of their long past, reclaiming the pieces of the relationship they both truly had in common. She forced herself to smile to him, reminding herself that he truly felt a glorification in his feats. After all, she was trained by a genius.

The thought of Erik made Christine shake her head again, trying to keep him out of her mind, for she could only imagine that he shared similar thoughts of Raoul's renditions as she did, if he even were still lurking behind the walls still.

Together, they relocated to the bedroom. Raoul took Christine by the hand, placing the violin on top of his desk and leading her out through the foyer and up to staircase. As they went, they passed Sarah, who bowed politely as they passed and smiled to the Comte, silently giving her approval. Raoul beamed as Christine turned her head away.

As they entered their bedroom, Raoul was closing the door behind him as Christine quickly began to change. They were closed back in, away from their past and back to the present they established together. Raoul turned to his wife and gave a sheepish smile, watching her finish putting on her nightgown and crawling underneath the covers.

"Shall we try again tonight?" he asked, hinting to her.

Christine looked up at him and shook her head silently, knowing precisely what he was talking about.

Raoul scowled.

Without paying any more mind to Raoul, she pulled the covers high over her shoulder and cozied herself under the sheets. Raoul quietly went about changing for the night as if he were creeping about the room, trying not to let his already acknowledge presence be known. As he finished, he slowly slid under the covers and focused himself on Christine, readying his hands as he sprang at her playfully and made her jump with a fright.

"Raoul, please," she said.

"Come now, Christine," he said, begging.

"Please, not tonight," she said sadly.

Raoul looked down to her questioningly, watching her sad expression turn to worry.

"What is making you so distressed, Christine?" he asked.

Christine lost her gaze with him. She closed her eyes and shook her head, biting her lip tightly. How could she tell him? It really was nothing, anyway. Her affections were for Raoul, she knew that clearly. Even upon seeing Erik that afternoon, then abruptly being comforted by Raoul, she knew it was he she truly did love. While Raoul held her heart, Erik held the key to what she loved outside of flesh: music. Raoul would never comprehend that…

"I'm fine," Christine said at last.

Raoul sighed heavily.

"Please believe me, Raoul," Christine said.

"I wish I could," Raoul said sadly. "But I can't when I know something is troubling you deeply."

"Just know," Christine said, carefully placing her words, "that I love you very much and anything that is troubling to me is purely in my mind."

"And how can I help that?" Raoul asked, pressing.

"Time, perhaps."

"Very well," Raoul said, unsatisfied.

He turned over heavily on his side of the bed and left Christine to the thoughts within her head. They alternated from her encounter that afternoon, to the music Raoul attempted, to the memories of her past in Sweden, Northern France and in Paris. They took her back to the streets of the city, to the small halls which she once sang, and finally to the Opera Garnier. To the majestic theatre that let her musical journey truly take wing under the guidance of her angel of music. Where she recaptured her love for the young Vicomte de Chagny and learned so much about herself in a strange turn of events. Had she never come to the opera, she would now have known life the way she knew it now, for better or for worse.

As her eyes grew heavy, the images of the beautiful artwork of the palace filled her mind and captured the imagination like it once had as she first entered its doors. She smiled as her eyelids fell over her eyes, taking her back to the stage standing before an empty house. A light shone down on her, filling her eyes with the radiant beams that came from the Heavens with the sound of brilliant song filling her ears. Just before the light, emerging from the depths of a trap-door was the trickster himself, engulfed in shadow in the backing of the heavenly rays.

Christine didn't attempt to strain, for she knew it was Erik who was coming before her. She could feel his presence like a spine clamping chill, holding her tightly in a wintry embrace. Through his shadow, she could see his hand raise, commanding her to sing again. She willingly obliged, filling her lungs with the sweet passions of the melody ringing inside of her.

She couldn't hear, but felt his corrections as if she was his marionette and he was commanding her dance; he seemed to control her chords, for Erik was like music itself. He was dark, yet pure. Imaginary, yet tangible, night, yet the daylight, and sweet, yet sorrow-filled in each refrain. He embodied every beauty of a true angel, so deserving of Beauty in return, yet he presented monstrosity, sporting and embracing all that was seen as horrible. Christine offered the only passion acceptable to such a creature: her song, filled with all the love she was capable of bestowing upon him.

Erik shifted in his darkness, outlined by the light as Christine's song faded to watch him. She turned her head, trying to catch his features without fear or pity, but could not make out his deformities. He pivoted around her, the outline of a hat placed atop his head becoming noticeable as she stretched her arms out to his indistinct form.

"You belong to me," Erik's figure said.

"To you or to music?" Christine asked.

"To the Opera," Erik said, his arm sweeping across the black void understood to be the audience.

Christine strained to see beyond the harsh glow. She squinted, eager to see the strange home that had shielded her from the sharp realities of the real life that tried to invade her. The taking of her father's life, the illness of her adoptive mother, the gossip in the social world and the call of suitors who once distracted from her art. The glow around her was just like the Opera was to her, keeping her out of the cruel world's reach while she grew to be the queen of a world of imagination. All of the costumes, set pieces, props and orchestrations were mere fabrications of what true life was, yet Christine was in control of it. The Opera was Christine's kingdom, yet she had been gone for too long.

She swore she could hear the sound of an audience's applause. She felt Erik shift.

"The Opera is your kingdom," the dream's voice said.

Christine knew she was dreaming, yet the power behind it sunk in as she could feel herself slipping away from the images in her mind.

"My home," she said out loud, the dream dissolving completely.

Christine sat up in the bed and looked over to see Raoul, sleeping soundly by her side. She waited to control her heavy breathing before turning her feet outside of the warmth of the covers and slowly creeping out of the bed. The floor creaked to her weight, yet Raoul made no sign of notice. She stepped to a small drawer beside her side of the bed and pulled it open, pushing aside a few letters she's kept from Raoul, some dried rose pedals and an old photograph. Beneath the memorabilia she pulled out a brass key and held it up to the moonlight for examination. Her pale lips turned to a soft smile as she confirmed the key's use and set it on top of the table. Slowly, she turned to the dresser and pulled out a dress that Raoul had bought for her. Christine took her time in dressing to be sure that she maintained complete silence before grabbing her boots and the key on the table.

She opened and closed the door just as cautiously and made sure to put her boots on while sitting on the edge of the stairs, away from the door so as not to be heard. As they were laced, Christine threw her cloak over her shoulders as she walked down the staircase and paused at the bottom of the stairs, looking up and over her shoulder. It was as if she was waiting for somebody to come down the stairs following her, yet no presence emerged. A faint smile crossed her lips.

"I'm going home, Erik," she whispered and as she turned toward the door, she pulled her clock over her head.


	7. Chapter 7

Author's note: This is a small taste of the final chapter. I felt a slight buffer was needed between the last and final chapter, so this is the result. With another major story in the works, I am juggling my writing between this and an original piece, so I'm hoping to finish this soon. I hope you enjoy and please leave your feedback.

* * *

><p>Christine was gone. Christine was gone and Raoul could place to where or for what reason she was gone. He wandered the entire estate, searching in places of little logic, hopeless to any luck at all. He scoured every room possible, turning furniture and opening doors to no avail. He even searched in unthinkable places such as closets, cupboards and toilets, trying to make some sense of his distress. He finally collapsed in her chair in the drawing room, letting his body find form in the cushion. His hand drew over his face and wiped away the stains of tears that had formed through his hunt.<p>

Where would she go?

She hadn't left the house in months and on the few occasions she had gone out, it was with Raoul for business. She hadn't left on her own time since they were married. It seemed completely out of character, yet why else would she suddenly turn missing? What provoked her to leave him? Was she truly gone or would she return? They were all questions he kept to himself. The help of the house was already frantically searching and keeping their eyes open for evidence, but they didn't disturb Raoul.

His hand massaged his temples, recalling the night they had before, with Christine, smiling so pretty at him as he played music for her again. He'd never expect her to leave him after such a gift. Though she did seem displeased as they went for bed… was his music unsatisfactory for her? He recalled her beautiful singing that afternoon; the sere brilliance of her instrument filling the house with more than just music, but with sorrow and radiance. It was a burst of joy and sadness, enough to make even the one emoting it weak with misery. More emotion than Raoul's music ever could have dreamed of containing.

Raoul scowled, twisting his lips against his teeth.

_She was trained by a genius,_ he though bitterly.

And the jealousy he once felt for the Voice returned to him after so many years. Why was it that Erik could move her in such ways? What was it about the monster that elated Christine's heart? He'd won and Erik was dead, then why did Raoul suddenly feel a hatred for the man all over again?

_What a fool I have been,_ Raoul thought. _She doesn't want a child's recital; she wants a genius' performance._

Raoul stood, rubbing his hand over his head, tears beginning to flow again. Even if he were decent with the violin, he'd never be anything like she was in her singing. She was superior to his talents and could make a mockery of his attempts with just the mere thought of singing a melody. She was raised on talent and later trained on technique and artistry.

Raoul could no longer fool himself. He stood from the chair and began pacing the room, stroking his chin and scratching the back of his head. If she were to have gone anywhere, would it not have been somewhere that softened the strain that had been on her mind lately? Raoul knew that her destination must be connected to music. But would she really make a trip to the Garnier Opera? She couldn't… they had just talked about it the other night; she wasn't ready for the opera.

With a run to the door, Raoul had his coat in his hand and was sprinting out the door, yelling to Marie as he slammed the door behind him. If he was going to find her, he wasn't going to get anywhere by sitting around. As he waved his arm in the air to alert his carriage, he began to compile a list of the potential places that she could have gone. A list of the stores she once visited came to mind, as well as the church, her favorite café and the other venues she had once sang at. Anywhere but the Garnier, for Raoul was certain she wouldn't return there. How could she return to the Garnier?

* * *

><p>Christine pulled the key out of her pocket and clasped it is her hands, giving its cold, lifeless brass warmth. She glanced to the sign above her reading Rue Scribe and turned down a tunnel heading beneath the surface of the street. The gate leading toward the lake beneath the opera was just as she remembered and seemed just as unused as the key to open it.<p>

With a heavy thud, the lock gave way and the hinges released a loud creak. With a clang, the gate was opened before Christine and she was rushing behind its protection, closing it quietly behind her. She looked from the inside out for a moment, recalling how desperately she once was to get out from the underground world of the opera, yet now she was longing to be back beneath its vaults again.

The clicking of her boots echoed throughout the hall, warning of her presence, yet she knew that there would be nobody to disturb tonight. She hoped the sound of her walking would alert Erik alone to her presence and bring him out to her so that he could control the small boat across the lake. Of course, when she reached the face of the lake, Erik was no where to be found. She called for him, waiting to feel his presence, but there was no shift in the air. With a heavy sigh, Christine walked down the edge of the lake's surface, looking down into the murky waters and wondering if he was playing one of his tricks.

She recalled the story of the Persian trying to cross the lake. He'd tried to swim across the water when the trick of the siren's song pulled him underneath the waters. Erik had told Christine this story of the foreigner's foolishness once when she was at the house on the lake. The Persian was able to call his name before being claimed by the siren's power, sparing his life. Perhaps the same luck would fall upon Christine?

She tried calling for Erik once more, then sat on the stones beside the lake's waters and began pulling off her boots. Soon enough, Christine was barefoot and down to the last layer of her dress with her cloak thrown off to the side. She knew she would need the warmth of these items for when she returned after her the lesson she imagined she would have with Erik in his home. Christine propped herself on the ground by the stones and slipped one of her legs down into the water. Her arms propped her up on the lake's side when they gave way and she dropped down, beneath the black tide and came splashing up to the surface searching for air. She never expected the water to be so deep beneath a building, yet she was unable to find the bottom. She held onto the side for a moment, waiting for Erik's arms to wrap around her and attempt to pull her down, but nothing was happening.

Christine called for Erik again, but there was no response. Perhaps something was wrong with him? The idea began to swell inside of her, causing her to release her grip from the side of the lake and begin struggling across the waters, barely staying afloat. Her damp hair was weighing on her, causing her already weak swimmer's arms to strain, yet her legs continued kicking wildly beneath her. Her head dipped beneath the surface a few times, but with a small burst of energy, she was able to bring herself back up and catch her breath before slightly sinking back down.

"Erik," she choked, now wishing his trick of the siren would come.

"Erik!" she cried, her arms growing weaker with each stroke.

The other end of the lake was no longer visible as Christine bobbed within the now sloshing water, disturbed only by her presence. She began coughing on the lake's contents, hearing her struggling splashes and then hearing nothing but the eerie hum of the water beneath the surface, then coming back enough to hear the spattering again. Her vision overhead faded as she went under and above the surface, until she could feel nothing but the grip of the murky water pulling her down, her arms failing to bring her back up again. Her hand stretched up for one last attempt at a stroke and beneath the surface, she made one last scream for help.

Just as she felt the grip of a hand pulling at hers, the black water around her took control of her eyes and she was completely blacked out.

* * *

><p>Christine coughed up water and she turned on her side, gasping for breath and expecting the sting of water to fill her lungs. Instead, she felt oxygen flowing within her and the comforting burn of a fire at her side. Her eyes struggled open, forcing her vision to come back to her when she sat up and saw the familiar shape of a room around her. The intense red walls, the simple furniture and lavish design, the lack of doors that led to the outside world. Everything about the room was unchanged, except for many of the small items were disposed of. The photographs on the walls, the vases and flower pots, and even the organ was missing from the room that was so instilled in Christine's memory.<p>

"Erik?" Christine called wearily.

She stood, wobbly on her feet, yet still capable of walking when she heard the creak of a door to her side. She swung around, nearly falling off of her balance, and locked eyes with a familiar face.

"Monsieur," Christine said, taken back and slightly offended on behalf of Erik.

She knew that Erik was very protective of his possessions, especially when it came to the presence of the Persian.

"Madame de Chagny," the Persian said, his words coated with surprise and questioning. "You nearly killed yourself in the lake tonight."

"I am looking for Erik," Christine responded, ignoring what she saw as the obvious.

The Persian stared at her, coolly trying to put thought behind his choice of words. His head was covered with a similar wrapping she remembered from the night he and Raoul had come to rescue her, yet now he looked so old. He didn't stand nearly as tall as Christine had remembered and he was now assisting himself with a small wooden cane.

"You should know better than any. Erik is dead," the Persian said at last.

"Oh, you must not know then," Christine said more to herself than the foreign man.

The Persian flinched at her words, unable to understand what it was she meant. He watched her turn about the room, looking around as if trying to search for a hidden object, yet she turned back to him unsatisfied with a pout in her eyes and twisted her lips.

"Monsieur, I am going to have to ask you to please leave," Christine said.

"Why is that, Madame?" the Persian asked slowly.

"I have business to take care of," Christine said simply, still glancing about the room.

"Madame, perhaps I can offer you some tea?" the Persian asked, reaching to grab hold of Christine's arm.

Christine pulled away immediately and shot him a defiant glare.

"No thank you," she said coldly. "I would like to be left alone."

"What business does Madame le Comtess have in a place like this?" the Persian asked.

"That is none of your concern, Monsieur," Christine said.

Christine began walking about the room, looking around without hiding her search. The Persian watched her intently, paying special attention to her eyes as they widened and squinted at undetectable sights and sounds. He shook his head in astonishment and began to slowly walk behind her.

"Ah, I understand, Madame," he said calmly. "I was only concerned that you might know about Erik."

Christine rounded quickly on the man with her eyes wide with astonishment.

"You know about Erik?" she asked, grabbing hold of his arms harshly.

"What about him?" the Persian tried.

"That he's alive?" Christine said.

She realized her fault and covered her hand quickly to her mouth, suppressing her gasp. The Persian laughed uneasily, trying to play along with the game.

"Ah, Madame, of course I know about Erik," he said calmly, relaxing her tight grip on him and releasing his hands from her grip.

"Then you've heard him, too?" Christine asked anxiously. "You've seen him?"

"Yes, Madame," the foreigner said, reaching his hand up to graze the back of her head.

"Then where is he?" Christine demanded.

The Persian continued sliding his hand behind her head, running his fingers through her hair. He kept his eyes focused on hers, masking his caress when he found the spot beneath her hair that he was going for. He opened his mouth, as if he was preparing to answer her question, when he stuck his thumb into a soft spot where her head and neck met and caught Christine's collapsing body in his arms. She was out cold once again and this time it was the Persian who had forced her consciousness from her.


	8. Chapter 8

Author's Note: I made it seem like the end was coming immediately before, but it actually will be after this chapter. Sorry if that led to any confusion. However, this is mainly the introduction to the last chapter, which I can guarantee will be left with some ambiguity. Anyway, please R/R because I love seeing that number go up. Hope ya'll enjoy. :)

* * *

><p>Raoul couldn't help but go back to the very location of his greatest fears. Despite the past thoughts of his Northern expedition, the possibility of never returning home, and even death itself, nothing struck him deeper than the ordeal beneath the depths of the Opera. He couldn't fathom not only loosing his life, but the life of his beloved and those innocent souls seated within the house of the opera. Yet he could never tell Christine of his worry because he strove to give Christine her own peace of mine. Now, as he approached the very establishment of the Garnier Opera, his heart began to waver. He prayed silently to himself that his love was not in this building. If his heart trembled to enter, he couldn't imagine how hers would fare. She didn't deserve such torment, even if self-inflicted. He remembered her dreams that reoccurred over the past three years, haunting her sleep so easily and forcing her to relive the tortures she underwent that she would not fully testify to. Raoul had nightmares too, yet he maintained composure to keep his wife calm and content. How he now wished he had paid more mind to her fears. Instead, he tried a carefree approach and didn't try to extinguish her fears as they came.<p>

Raoul looked up to the angels looming overhead, staring down at him and daring him to enter, though it was the presence of another angel that threatened the most. Even with Erik's death, his air radiated from the building as if his spirit was with him. He truly created this place, not only assisting in the initial construction, but forming the very walls and caverns below to aid in his ghostly pranks. Raoul thought he could have easily returned to the opera, but now the ghosts of his and Christine's past were as powerful as ever. Raoul wasted no time and headed straight through the manager's entrance on the side of the building. With the opera being on a regular slow afternoon with all business and no performances, Raoul assumed this route would arrange the quickest result. His pace quickened as he realized just how odd it was that Christine would venture here on an off day when it was music she wished to hear.

He turned into a small office to find a single gentleman standing beside a desk, holding a paper to his nose and squinting at the fine print. His mustache seemed to tickle his cheeks as he adjusted the facial hair smugly.

"Pardon me, Monsieur," Raoul said with a light knock on the door.

"Yes?" the man asked, keeping the paper to his face.

"Monsieur, where may I find Messieurs Andre and Moncharmin?"

"I beg your pardon?" the man asked, seeming slightly offended.

"Yes, Monsieur. The managers of the opera," Raoul said, wondering if he'd confused the poor gentleman.

"Messieurs Andre and Moncharmin are no longer the managers of the Garnier," the man said.

"No longer the managers?" Raoul mimed. "Well then, who are the managers?"

"I am the manager, Monsieur," the man said, finally pulling the paper down to have a look at the man outside of his door.

"I beg your pardon then, Monsieur. I have not been to the Garnier for some time now," Raoul said distantly.

"Is there something I can help you with?" the new manager said with a huff.

"Perhaps," Raoul said. "I am looking for somebody."

As the man with the mustache's curiosity seemed to peak, Raoul heard a sound behind him. He turned over his shoulder and saw a man standing behind a wall, peering out toward him and making a motion to his lips to keep quiet. His jade eyes radiated with urgency as he turned with a motion to follow with his hand. Raoul then caught sight of the wrapping around his temple.

"Who is it you are looking for, Monsieur?" the manager asked, trying to draw Raoul's attention back to him.

"Uh," Raoul said, still looking behind him for more signal. "She's blonde."

He began to turn toward the wall the Persian disappeared behind.

"A woman?" the manager asked, coming from around the desk to get Raoul to pay attention to him. It was evident he had not seen or heard the Persian.

"Excuse me, Monsieur," Raoul said, quickly walking away from the office and around the corner of the wall the Persian disappeared behind.

The manager followed Raoul out, trying to make sense of the poor fellow when he found him missing as soon as he turned through the threshold of his office. He looked around the corners of the door before giving a heavy sigh and closing the door to give himself privacy.

As soon as Raoul turned the corner, his arm was taken by a quick hand and he was pulled into an alcove. The Persian held his hand to his lips again and signaled for Raoul to keep quiet and follow him. Raoul nodded his head and agreed, following closely behind the foreigner and did every movement he did. Raoul did his best to keep himself from thinking how identical this scenario felt to the same one he was in three years prior…

Though the Persian did not lead Raoul to the dressing room of Christine. Instead, he took his straight back through the door that Raoul had entered through and walked him around to Rue Scribe. He pulled him into corners and small spaces only a couple of times from the lack of activity in the building, yet it still seemed that the Persian wished to go unnoticed in the opera. As they walked along the outside of the building, the Persian led Raoul to a tunnel that led down underneath the foundation. It took them to a small gate which the Persian removed a key from his pocket to unlock. Once they were inside, the man began walking down further into the tunnel without explanation.

"Wait," Raoul said, grabbing a hold of the Persian's arm and forcing him to look at him. "Back to the cellars?"

"Precisely," the Persian replied.

"But why?" Raoul asked.

"Are you not looking for your wife?" the Persian asked harshly.

"Yes, I am," Raoul said, his face growing pale. "But, why here?"

The Persian looked at him with sympathy, realizing that once again, Raoul knew so little. He could sense that Raoul was already forming answers to his own question, but the foreigner couldn't think of the correct words to say. The Persian himself still hardly knew what was becoming of the former diva.

"She was searching for the house on the lake," he said without looking at Raoul.

"My God," Raoul said, horrified. "But she told me the other night…"

Raoul trailed off, trying to make sense of everything. The nightmares. The longing for music. Her singing in the drawing room. The hesitation she'd been showing toward him. But the Phantom of the Opera was dead. Was he not? Did Christine not bury him herself? Raoul had felt satisfied all of these years with this alibi, yet now he began to question. He did not see Erik's dead body. He did not accompany Christine on her journey back to the house on the lake. Perhaps there was more secret to the Angel of Music after all?

Raoul's grip on the Persian's arm grew more intense.

"Monsieur le Comte," the Persian said, slipping his arm from Raoul's grip. "How has your wife been at home?"

"Well," Raoul said. He turned on his words quickly, though, saying, "Wishing for music back in her life. And she's had nightmares."

"Nightmares of what?" the Persian asked.

"Him."

The Persian nodded slowly, running his hand over his bearded chin. Raoul looked to him for an answer, holding his arms out to his sides and dropping them heavily against his legs.

"She is down here, Monsieur," the Persian said. "Though I am not sure you will like the condition she is in."

"Why ever not?" Raoul asked, appalled.

The Persian motioned for Raoul to follow him. Raoul obliged immediately.

"I heard a voice calling for the monster. Calling his name. I didn't believe it was real at first, but I eventually came out of the house, which I have been removing articles from since his death. When I came out of the house, I heard splashing and knew immediately that she had gone into the lake. I saved her just before she went under."

Raoul's mouth had fallen open in horror. Why would his Christine do such a thing to herself? Why would she return to him after all these years?

"When she came back to consciousness, she was disoriented," the Persian continued.

By now, they had reached the lake that she had attempted the cross. It was still once again, but now the simply carved boat floated in the waters, tied to the side. The Persian ushered the Comte into the boat and began propelling them forward through the water.

"Disoriented how?" Raoul asked.

The Persian paused, focusing on his stroke when he turned mid-way and looked harshly at Raoul.

"Monsieur le Comte," he said. "Has there been any sign of distress from your wife at home?"

"What do you mean 'distress?'" Raoul asked.

"Has she seemed herself lately?"

"I suppose," Raoul said.

"You suppose, Monsieur? Being that she is your wife, I would hope that you would be the one to know her the best. I will ask you again. Have she seemed herself lately?"

"No," Raoul snapped. "No, she hasn't."

"What makes her seem different? I need your honesty now, Monsieur. We may be dealing with a serious issue."

"Serious?" Raoul asked.

The Persian did not respond. He looked at Raoul harshly, waiting his response. Raoul sighed.

"She has been having nightmares. She's had them ever since we've left this place, but lately they've seemed more intense. She wakes in a sweat, usually screaming."

"Go on," the Persian urged.

"She has also seemed transfixed with music. I thought it harmless and even tried to accommodate her wishes, but it must not have been enough. I feel like she's been hiding something, though for a while, I thought—"

"Thought what, Monsieur?"

"I've been suspecting that she is pregnant," Raoul said quietly.

The boat hit against the side of the wall and a small dock. The Persian jumped out and tied the vessel against a post hastily. Raoul's attention snapped back to the task of finding Christine as he stood to his feet and made his way to the dock. The Persian helped him up onto the platform and then turned to block his view of the door leading into the house on the lake. Raoul had never seen the entrance before, for their journey took them through the outskirts of the house and into the torture chamber.

"Monsieur," the Persian said. "Has she mentioned the name of the monster at all?"

"No," Raoul said bitterly.

"Has she hinted at all of him?" the Persian pressed.

"Not once," Raoul said.

"And you're sure?"

"Must you torment me further?" Raoul snapped.

The Persian made a motion to keep his voice down, though he understood Raoul's distress. After three years of being free of Erik, it would make any man tense to realize that he was now very much present again.

"Forgive me, Monsieur," the Persian said after a moment. "Though I am going to tell you something that will make you very uneasy, but for the sake of your wife, you must be able to keep your calm."

Raoul's eyes grew with grief, unsure how to translate what it was the man was hinting at. With all of this questioning, what could it possibly be that the Persian could say to him? He held is breath, looking deeply into the olive-skinned face of the man, preparing to search for sincerity.

"Your wife, Monsieur, has been visited by Erik once again."


	9. Chapter 9

Author's Note: Well, here it is… the ending. I hope I've built all your anticipation enough to this point. With the ending of this one, I am already planning my next phic piece that I plan to call "Obsession." It is still a bit in the workings as far as how it is going to play out, but I was inspired on day and really want to get it started. It will be a bit different from this one, though (one major hint: Modern :X).

Anyway, thank you all so much to those who have followed this story, reviewed it, and sent private messages about it. I really appreciate any feedback I can get and it really drives me to continue. :) So, without further ado, the final chapter of "The Voice."

Raoul's astonishment at the Persian's words took a moment to take full effect. He stared at the foreign man, shaking his head at first, his lips trembling on his opened mouth. He stroked his chin for a moment, then stepped away from the Persian and the door of the house on the lake. Surely, if he were back with Christine, it must have meant that they were behind that door, together. The man who had once cursed the monster had allowed them time together, alone. Was Christine his prisoner again? It was all that he had feared, yet it couldn't be true. It couldn't be…

"He's alive?" Raoul asked finally.

"Not quite, Monsieur," the Persian said with a deep breath.

With his age, he seemed especially old now. He seemed to act like a father telling his son that he was close to passing, yet the details were deeper than that. They were much more unexpected than that of an aging father.

"Not quite?" Raoul protested.

Raoul was prepared to start at an argument, yet the Persian held up his hand for silence. Raoul didn't know why, but he complied to his request.

"Monsieur, she has seen the monster again. But it is not how you may believe."

"Go on," Raoul urged.

"When I first encountered her, I didn't know what to think. She seemed to be looking for something, but I didn't realize she was looking for _him_."

"Of course not," Raoul said in frustration.

"Yet that was precisely what she was looking for."

Raoul stood in silent, unsure how to react. It couldn't be, she'd never go looking for him. Not with the happiness they had shared for the past three years…

"And did she find him?" Raoul asked hoarsely.

"I believe she's seem him well before making a trip here, Monsieur."

Raoul clenched his hands into a fist and curled his lips. He began to rush toward the door, prepared to storm in and confront Erik face to face, yet a surprisingly firm hand pressed against his chest.

"Do not block me, Monsieur," Raoul cried. "I will not let him take advantage of her mind again!"

"It is too late for that, Monsieur," the Persian said sadly.

Raoul stopped and looked down at the man. His eyes were filled with a genuine sympathy. The stare of his jade eyes held Raoul in place, like a charmer calming a snake. There was a different manner in the pity he showed. Rather than being the father informing the son, he was like the doctor addressing the family. Like there was no hope of recovery and all was done but unable to be resolved.

"Monsieur le Comte, I believe your wife has been having visions."

"Visions?"

"Yes, delusions of the monster being back in her life."

"No," Raoul said, his firm stance growing weak.

"I've contained her within the monster's house, but there is no telling if she is awake until we go in to check."

"So, he is really dead?" Raoul whispered.

"Yes," the Persian said.

"But she thinks he is alive?"

A silence fell between the two. The Persian stared at him intently for a moment, and then waved his hand for Raoul.

"Please, follow me," the Persian advised.

Raoul hesitated before staggering behind the Persian, fumbling with his footing in the darkness. The Persian had slowed in his movement and it seemed his clumsy attempts at opening the door weren't any faster. Raoul's heart pounded beneath his chest, vocalizing his concern when finally a loud latch seemed to release and light came into the dark cellar from a wall that seemed to be solid through.

The Persian held his hand out to keep Raoul out for a moment, but Raoul rushed past him and entered the vaguely familiar room. He searched the room for a moment before finding his Christine, chained against a wall and sitting on the floor.

"Raoul!" Christine cried, rustling against the chains.

"Christine!" he called, tears flooding over his eyes and relief beaming from his face.

Raoul ran to her and scooped her into his arms, ignoring the heavy iron wrapping around him. He ran his fingers through her blonde curls, pulling her close into his embrace and looking harshly to the foreign man standing by the entrance to the terrible house. Raoul stood in a rush and pointed an accusing finger at the Persian.

"What have you done to her?" Raoul demanded.

The Persian gave an annoyed glance at the man, crossing his arms over his chest. Raoul glared back at him defiantly, crossing his arms in a similar fashion. He couldn't believe the circumstance they were in. Once, this man was his ally, and now he was clearly against them. Christine looked fine; radiant, in fact. And there was no Phantom in the room they stood in. Raoul stepped back to comfort his wife, when she let out a loud gasp.

"Careful, Raoul!" she said, grabbing hold of the back of his leg.

Raoul stumbled, trying to avoid whatever it was she was concerned for. He turned to face her and saw nothing in danger of his path.

"What is it, Christine?" Raoul asked.

"Why, you almost stepped on him," she said.

"Who?" Raoul asked.

"Erik, of course!"

Christine gestured to the empty space beside her. Raoul looked at the spot and then looked around it, turning in a circle about himself and then going back to his love. His eyes grew with sorrow as he saw the truth.

"Oh, stop," she said to the air. "You know Raoul is my husband. I love him very much."

A long pause and then she gave a face of disapproval.

"Now, don't start that again," she said. "I told you how I feel for you."

Raoul stooped down beside Christine, forcing her hands in his and pulling her attention away from her imaginary companion.

"Christine, listen to me," Raoul began.

The Persian stepped forward, gaining Raoul's attention and turning him to look for assistance.

"Monsieur, might I suggest—"

"No!" Christine yelled.

Both of the men turned to stare at her in astonishment. Her once calm and cheerful spirit changed so quickly.

"What is it, dear?" Raoul asked slowly.

"Do not listen to him, Raoul!" she said like a child.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Don't listen to him," she repeated. "Erik doesn't trust him anymore."

Raoul turned back to the Persian, begging for help with his eyes. The Persian's generally calm demeanor turned hot with anger as he took a few steps forward and pointed down at Christine.

"This is exactly why you're confined," he said.

Christine glared at him, her eyes on fire. Her nose wrinkled with distaste as she held his gaze, intently waiting for more out of him. Her attention suddenly turned, as if she was spoken to.

"It's okay," she whispered. "Raoul's here now. He'll unbind us."

Raoul backed away from Christine, horrified by the ordeal. Where had this come from and why had it taken hold of his wife? He didn't know how to react to her words. He couldn't find the proper technique to console her. Yet he still couldn't come up with the reason behind her madness. She may not have been herself at home, yet how did it all come down to this? And when?

The Persian slowly approached Raoul while Christine was preoccupied to supposedly adjusting Erik's mask to spare her husband. He placed a steady hand on his shoulder and pulled him to the side, his eyes filled with urgency.

"I have seen this before, Monsieur," he said quietly. "Back in Mazenderan. It is a mental illness that causes the victim to fall prey to false images. It appears Christine has created her own version of Erik. It is as if she took the qualities she found most desirable in him and created him to her own fancies."

Raoul moaned, looking over to his wife, who was now beginning to hum soft melodies toward her angel.

"In creating this version of Erik, she has also grown to create a hatred for me," the Persian said, trying to hide his aggravation. "This is why I was forced to confine her, aside from needing time to find you, Monsieur."

"What must I do?" Raoul asked.

The Persian looked down at the woman, now reliving her full triumph loudly on the floor, stopping herself for correction from her supposed maestro.

"It has been so long, Erik. I'm not sure I can handle that range quite yet," she said.

"Monsieur, there is no reverse for this illness. None that I have seen," the Persian said.

"None at all?" Raoul pressed.

The Persian shook his head reluctantly.

"Then I must care for her myself, then?" Raoul asked.

"I wouldn't advise it," the Persian said. "She is capable of acting out."

"She wouldn't," Raoul argued.

"I beg to differ, Monsieur," the Persian said.

At that, he raised his arm and pulled his coat off of his shoulder, revealing a gash running down his arm, still fresh. Raoul gasped and backed away, shaking his head in disbelief.

"She would never do that to me," he protested.

"This was from informing her that she could not stand in the torture chamber," the Persian said dryly. "She is not stable enough to trust."

Raoul collapsed to the ground, tears flooding over his eyes. He knew that Erik's control was over Christine again. The mystery of The Voice was ever present again, but this time, there was no getting rid of it. As his hands covered his eyes, he felt a small pair of hands clasp on to her arm. He looked over and saw Christine looking at him with concern.

"It's alright, Raoul," she said. "He is only going to work on my voice."

Raoul tried to smile, but his tears continued to flow.

The Persian helped him to his feet and began to work at tying Christine's hands behind her back. She struggled and even kicked at him a few times. Raoul finally gained the courage to take over for him, assuring Christine it was for her safety. Her eyes turned cold to him. She kept her silence as they removed her chains and carried her out to the boat. Meanwhile, she would whisper to Erik, who was apparently walking by her side, telling him that it seemed they were on their own now.

She kept calm on the ride across the boat, occasionally looking over into the water, seeming to be searching for the terrible hands of the siren to reach out and overturn the small vessel.

The Persian went ahead of the couple, going back to the surface to find a member of the police to assist them to the asylum.

Raoul sat beside Christine's tied body and tried to speak to her seriously.

"Christine, you know we are not trying to hurt you," he tried.

"Do you believe him?" she asked Erik.

After searching within Raoul's eyes for a moment, she looked to her invisible counterpart and nodded.

"Raoul," she finally said. "Are you angry that I came back?"

"No," Raoul said, though his mind was enraged. "No, my love. You've returned to your angel."

And in an odd way, he truly felt it was true. Though he was only in her mind, the man who had haunted her days at the opera was truly watching over her again. Even in her weak state of mind and her frail brain, he was bringing her strength. As Raoul thought it over, he began to realize that even in their time at home, it was the moments he suspected Erik's so called presence the most that Christine seemed her strongest again. Though she was weak with fear and thought, she was free of the confines of their status and her results on the stage. She was paired again with her Angel of Music, and for once, both she and Raoul didn't fear The Voice.

Fin.

Forgive me? :D


End file.
